The Eisbaby Cometh
by LittleBounce
Summary: Someone has left a baby on Nick's doorstep - just as Hank desperately needs him. Who's going to swing by and cover for him? His friends, with other priorities on their minds, seem very unkeen to save the day this time...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: sadly, I own none of the Grimm characters. They would be having pretty bananas conversations if I did.**

**I'm new to these communities and have really enjoyed reading your fics. Forgive me if I stuff up getting chapters up in proper format etc, I'm still slightly wrestling with the mechanics! Any views or reviews would be much appreciated if you have the time or inclination to do so.**

* * *

"Nick, if you're holding a beer, put it down. Hank's been shot. Can you drive down to Portland General, or do we need to send a car?"

He wasn't holding a beer, but he was trying to calm an...Eisbaby, and the shock sent Nick dropping into the pits of his armchair.

"You there, Nick?" Wu pressed, "I know it's a shock but he's been through the whole pain, surgery, recovery thing, and I think he'd appreciate seeing a friendly face. So... pick your choices. Ahh... is that a baby I can hear?"

"Yeah, itsababy" Nick blurted, leaping out of his seat and bouncing round the room doing the jiggle dance while trying to pin the mobile between his shoulder and his ear. The little guy knew how to make noise. "Look, I've got some child custody issues that I can't walk away from right now, but I'll be at the General as soon as possible. Please tell Hank not to hate me."

"Ah, he'll get that. What's the problem? Domestic violence?"'

"He's an abandoned baby," Nick admitted, leaving out the part where he'd found Choo (he had to call him something) on his front doorstep. "I've got social care coming round at six, but I'm hoping to get someone to relieve me before then."

"I'll let Hank know. Good luck with the baby. Sounds like he has a cold. Babies are hell with a cold."

Nick rang off and let his mobile drop to the floor. He eased Choo, still howling and sneezing, down onto his forearms. "I don't think this is a cold. What are you allergic to, little guy? Shall we bob over to the window and see if that helps?"

Over they bobbed, and Choo quit wailing. He peeped up at Nick with huge brown eyes, framed by impossibly long lashes. He had neat little lips and that soft roundness that holds you helplessly in baby's thrall. He reckoned Choo was about 6-9 months old. He could see teeth starting to come through, but there still wasn't much in the way of hair – the soft brown tuft on top sticking bolt upright and floating of its own accord. Nick chuckled: Choo looked like he'd been sitting on a Van-de-Graaf generator. Moving the kid into a cradling position in his left arm, he gave the little button nose an affectionate flick which of course brought on another sneeze. The nose turned into a black snout, blonde down burst out on Choo's face and Nick got a face full of beaver spray.

"Great!" He made a cushion nest on the corner of his couch, sat Choo into it and wiped his face clean with the bottom of his tee-shirt. He could feel the clock ticking accusingly. He'd left messages for Monroe. For Juliette, who'd called back and would have laughed in his face if she'd been there to do it. He'd called Rosalee. He'd left a message for Bud. He was seriously running out of support network.

His mobile did ring then and he had to scramble around the floor looking for it. It had smuggled itself a good foot under the couch but he snatched it and thumbed the green. "Monroe!"

"Rosalie, actually. Thanks for the panic-fest you left on my answer machine. So, what's the emergency? Should I come round with a first-aid kit?"

Boy, she sounded snitty. "Actually, what I could really do with, please please please, is some diapers, wipes, and baby formula. And some help."

There was this long groan at the other end of the line. "I'll swing by the drugstore and pick some stuff up for you. What kind of 'help' do you have in mind?"

"I gotta go out. It's really urgent. If you could just stay with him-"

"No. I'd rather lapdance halfway up the Eiffel during an electrical storm."

Nick blinked at his mobile. "It's just for a couple of ho-"

"Really, Nick. No way. I'm presuming that this baby is wesen, or you'd just be calling one of your regular friends. Wesen babies need their own parents – they react violently to surrogates, even temporary ones. I'll bring you the stuff, then you're on your own."

Nick had been absently playing with Choo's fingers while on the phone to keep him happy and he couldn't help grinning as the little guy grabbed his thumb in a pudgy fist, stared adoringly at the tip of it from about two inches away, and then popped it in his mouth for a chew. Cuteness over. Nick gasped a gasp worthy of a credit card bill, sucked the oxygen clean from the room, felt his eyes water, and eventually blasted: "Fuck, TEETH!"

"Exactly," Rosie said primly. "Teething wesen – you can keep them."

He wondered what he'd done to piss her off so monumentally and drew out his last card. "Look, I wouldn't ask, but it's really urgent. Hank's been shot. I gotta go see him, but I can't just leave the kid here."

"Oh God. How is he? Is he going to be ok?"

Nick took a deep breath. "I really, really hope so. He was asking for me."

"He was? That's great! It means he'll be fine. I'll be round in a half hour with the stuff." She hung up with no noticeable u-turn in her babysitting policy. Cold!

He got up to wash his thumb off, eliciting an instant scream from Choo, who had no intention of letting him go more than a meter away unaccompanied. "'Kay, come with me to the tap then. But I got to tell you, this is going to be AWKWARD." Nick popped Choo back on his shoulder and headed for the sink, struggling to get his thumb clean and a sticky plaster on it without double-wrapping or getting the sticky part of it all messed up. Choo nuzzled into the side of his neck, getting all droopy and now only sneezing once in a while. Nick racked his brain for german lullabies. That didn't take long. Choo seemed happy when he was mumbling or singing low, so he went for the only kids' song he knew in full, slowing it right down.

"Whooooo... lives... in a pine-apple... under the sea? Sponge-bob Square-pants. Yel-low, ab-sor-bent and por-ous is heeee... sponge-bob squ-"

The doorbell rang and he almost sprinted to get it open. Rosalee was faster. There was a huge bag of stuff on his doorstep but all that could be seen of the evasive fuschbau was her silhouette streaking along the sidewalk back to her car.

* * *

TBC!


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the very friendly and encouraging reviews! Much appreciated, thank you. For those of you who commented, I hope Monroe reflects your views on the appropriateness of 'Choo' . Part three coming very soon, hopefully!**

Her FEDEX exit notwithstanding, Rosalee had done really well and got him a pile of great stuff. He hauled the bag into the front room and invaded it with his one free hand. Bless her. He found diapers, formula and wipes as requested. But also a yellow jumpsuit, a couple of long-sleeved teeshirts (one with Oscar the Grouch, the other Elmo), a fleece blanket with a green kitten pattern (?), and a couple of stressball squeezy toys. On the bottom of the bill, just under the heavily-circled total, Rosie had scrawled 'PTO'.

Nick T'd-O. Rosalee had added: "DON'T GET ATTACHED. Ps, stressballs are for him, not you."

Nick's feeling that he'd done something terrible to offend her found a little firmer ground. He'd call her tomorrow, or maybe show up at the spice shop with flowers (along with a baby-bag refund), ask what was going on. Until then, he had to make a decision about Choo, who was beginning to wear his arm out. As gently as possible, he popped the furry tot into the cushion nest he'd made and popped the fleece blanket over him. He looked so peaceful Nick felt a rush of anger towards the faceless Eishole who'd just dumped him there. A part of him understood that this kind of thing didn't happen unless someone was desperate, and he knew from personal experience that desperation had the power to wipe out courage. What he couldn't get his head around was the idea of a decent person dumping a kid on someone's doorstep without supplies.

His mobile buzzed: Wu. "no pressure and I know these things tk time, but how about an ETA?"

Ignoring Rosalee's edict, Nick picked up the stressballs. He couldn't take Choo to hospital (he'd have to think of another name now the kid had stopped sneezing), however convenient that may have been, because Hank would be in a sterile zone after surgery. And it concerned him that even asleep, the kid hadn't shifted back. With no-one else around to swap notes with, he had no idea whether the Eisbaby's woge state would be visible to humans or not and he was slightly concerned now that he'd already called social services, who were due to show up at six. He could hardly call them back and tell them not to come. The heavens opened outside and rain smacked into the windows at front of house.

Another mobile buzz, more Wu: "tell you what, if you don't get relieved in ten minutes, I'll come over myself. Shift nearly finished."

"Hey!" Nick yelled at his phone. "What happened to 'no pressure'?"

The doorbell rang and Nick jolted from the edge of the couch, one eye on Choo as he hoped the noise wouldn't wake him. The kid gave a little snore through his blocked nose, stirred, settled. Moving gingerly, he craned his head to face the door and saw a golden sight: flannel through the central glass pane, dishevelled hair through the top pane and sprinted round the house pulling sneakers on, collecting coat, mobile and keys. If Monroe's reaction was going to be anything as fierce as Rosie's, he wanted to be as ready as possible to make a run for it before his friend really had the chance to get into his sarcastic stride. Slightly breathless, he yanked open the door and a very irritable, bedraggled Monroe stomped past him into the hall.

"Is this some kind of experiment? Are you checking out whether Blutbaden rust in the rain, or something?"

"Sorry, I had my hands full. Hang on, I'll get you a towel...here."

Monroe got partial revenge by initially flicking his hair dry, almost making Nick need the towel himself, then rubbed off. "Get that fricking porch fixed, will ya? I thought you had a small army of slavish and willing Eisbibers to help you with that kinda thing."

Nick swallowed. It looked like Rosie had handed out the anti-Nick pills pretty generously. "Yeah, about the Eisbibers- I've got an issue."

"It'd better be a _concise_ issue, cause I've got a date with her tonight."

Nick felt his mobile buzzing again in his back pocket and made a silent vow to staple Wu's thumbs together so he'd quit bothering him. Stress turned his head into a pit of nonsense, and in an attempt to get straight to the point, he babbled a diatribe about Hank being shot, really needing to go see him, and being eternally grateful if Monroe could stick around for the whole two hours it would take him to get to Portland General and make it back again. Monroe was looking more and more confused and ready to resist, and painfully aware he was gabbling, Nick tried to persuade the Blutbad that the baby would be no bother. "Look, the little guy's sleeping right now, so-"

"-Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Monroe waved his arms like he was trying to direct a plane into a hangar. "WHAT little guy? You cannot possibly be talking about Hank!" Then he glanced over at the coffee table, where Choo's carseat was still perched. He froze, all of him stiff, suspicious and still except for a small, accusatory point at the seat. "Please don't tell me that that... tot-bucket... came with its own little dude?" He wandered over and turned it round and up and down like he'd never seen one before and he was handling the Holy Grail. He was sniffing like he was picking up foul scent. Then he looked like he was taking swabs off the inside of the seat with tissue. Nick fought against irritation at the guy's sanitary obsession given that he was about to ask him a huge favour.

Nick felt his butt buzz _again_ and resisted the urge to hurl his mobile against the wall. "Monroe, he was left on my doorstep like, an hour ago. I know my favour tab is running really high, but I gotta go see Hank and I can't leave Choo here."

"Choo?"

He flushed. "Well he's stopped sneezing _now_, but-"

"A kid keeps sneezing so you call him Choo? God forbid anyone leaves you in charge of a kid that breaks wind!"

"I was stressed! He kept yelling! I didn't know what else to call him!"

"You could call him Matty, which is his name." Monroe handed over the tissue, which turned out to be a scrap of paper, which had evidently been stuck down the side of the seat. His voice softened a little as he went on. "I could smell cortisol, adrenaline and diseased plasma on this – which is how I found it. It was kinda tucked away, to be fair. This is sad, but the long and the short of it is that no-one's coming to find their kid. The person who wrote this is dying."

Nick took a couple of seconds to read the letter, which simply read: "I have no choice, I cannot infect my son. Please find the right home for Matty."

His sad reflections were interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming outside. Wu! God, please don't let that be Wu already. Nick tried Monroe one last time. "Look, someone's coming to pick him up at six. I've got Wu outside ready to..." _let's not put the idea of someone __**else**__ babysitting Matty in his head_... "..ready to take me to the hospital and, with Hank in IC, I can't take the kid with me. Would you please, please watch him? I can get hold of Bud later and find out if we can get any help from the lodge."

Monroe looked at him dangerously. "You do remember the part where I said I had a date with Rosalee tonight? I intend to turn up at the designated place at the designated time, unencumbered by Beaverspray."

"What time are you meeting her?"

"Eight. On. The. Dot."

Nick could have laughed with relief. "Look, I can get a lift there and back, and even if I spend like... an hour with Hank, which they probably won't allow, I'll be back by five."

"By five? No later? Cause Rosie's only in heat three times a year and I don't want to miss my chances of wild you-know-what with her while she's this fantastically stroppy and aggressive."

Nick's heart was beginning to lift, disturbing images of you-know-what notwithstanding, and he wasn't even worried when he saw Wu's silhouette stamping up the steps outside. He'd just apologise for the delay and climb into his car before he got to see the kid. "Let's say _no later_ than five, which'll give you plenty of time to shower, dress up smart, comb your face-"

"Hey! Are you trying to charm me into this, or not?"

"And he's asleep. He'll be no bother. And actually, he's kind of cute."

Monroe groaned almightily and buried his face in his hands. "Of course he's cute, you moron, it's nature's way of making you forget he ate your furniture. Ok, fine, I'll do it. The kid isn't wogeing right, so you probably don't have much choice. But I gotta warn ya, I'm going to drink your _all_ brews. And if you're back a nanosecond after five-"

Nick nearly bowled Monroe over with the force of his hug and was so relieved that he barely caught many of the terrible fates that would befall him if he was late.

"...I'll put garlic in your favourite jam, sew prawns into your curtain lining next time we get a hot spell, and pull your arms and legs off in the middle of the night. Got that?"

"Thank you, so much." Wu rang the doorbell and Nick went to answer it. "If you and Rosalee ever decide to have any... fuschbladen, I will absolutely be at your beck and call."

Monroe raised a tenuous brow. "Given 'Choo', I'm not sure I'll take you up on that, but thanks all the same."


	3. Chapter 3

**First off – thanks all for your lovely reviews and encouraging comments. It's really kind of you to take the time to leave them and they've given me a real boost! **

**A little caveat: we've only just finished the first series of Grimm over in the UK, so I don't know whether Hank knows about Wesen yet. So, for some (or many) of you, some sections may overlap of contradict what's being aired in the US. I hope it doesn't put you off – I've tried to leave things pretty open. Thanks for continuing to read!**

**15:05**

Boy, Matty could sniff: he could sniff for Oregon. Monroe got a tissue, wiped the little guy clean, scooped him up to get him up to Nick's room. However carried away he and Rosalie may have gotten here last night, they respected the sanctity of the unmolested bedroom.

"It's not a haven for the neat-and-tidy, but it's warm, safe and not covered in Fuschbau dander. Less dander in your life. that's what you need, little buddy. And when you wake up, I'll have a brew, you can have some pap, we'll find National Geographic on the box and neither of us is going to say a WORD to Uncle Nick about Uncle M's breaking-and-mating act last night, right?"

Nick was a patient guy. He was happy for him to go round and make himself (and Rosie) dinner after his boiler had broken down (a cold house does not a randy Blutbaden make). He was happy for him to crash over and drink his brews. But he'd probably draw the line at Monroe allowing his phone to ring unanswered all night because he was busy...rutting... while he was out chasing, capturing and de-toxing caffeinated Wildemenn. It was _purely _this small pang of conscience that made him feel that, actually, a little babysitting wasn't such a big ask. It had nothing to do with the fact that the kid was just plain dinky.

Matty snored gently in the hollow of his shoulder.

"Let's just get you settled..."

Monroe pulled back the duvet and formed the pillows into a v-wedge so Matty could sleep propped up a little – make him more comfortable. What if he fell out? He went scouting for extra bedding and found a mountain of it in the junk room. He laid quilts, cushions and pillows all round the bed so that it would be like falling onto a bouncy castle – if he fell - then tucked him in. Removed from the allergen, Matty's fuzzy blonde cheeks retracted their down, his nose retreated from triangular to button, and the impossibly long eyelashes formed thick, crescent moons on the peaks of his cheeks. There was a flicker of relapse as his ears bounced out huge and pointy – _huge and pointy? _– but with a soft little mewling sound, he smiled in his sleep and scrunched quilt in his fists, looking ludicrously pleased with himself.

Monroe grinned, pulled the door closed behind him and went to find a vacuum.

**15:24**

"What's a Fushflabber?"

"Huh?"

"What you said to the other guy – you were going to look after his Fushflabber for him. You taking in a pet over the holidays, or something?"

"It's a kind of chinchilla. Very rare." _Christ, Wu, please don't look that up. _Nick had a horrible feeling that he was actually going to giggle and that he wouldn't be able to stop once he'd started so he wound the window down to get some air and compose himself. He got a face full of rain, but it helped.

"Dude! What are you doing?"

"Uh... checking on traffic."

"Well, check it from _inside_ the car, will ya? That's the beauty of windows. You can see through them. I don't need a typhoon in my motor, ok?"

Nick wound the window up but succumbed. Great rib-moving jerks of inappropriate laughter blasted from him for what felt like an age, reducing him to a crumpled, breathless heap in the shotgun seat. Three days of tension came out at the same time, a night of no sleep in the forest followed by baby abandonment, and then... Hank getting shot. That sobered him. He caught his breath and cranked his way straight in his seat, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Sorry... I don't know where that came from."

Wu shrugged. "People react to stress in different ways. My Uncle was usually found rolling in the aisles at the back of any given funeral. He'll be fine, Nick. He just wants to talk to you before the Captain swings by." He pulled into the unloading bay outside the emergency department. "Ok, catch you in a couple of days."

"You're not coming in?"

"Nah, he's sick of the sight of me and there's a jar of hoisin and a pack of sausages with my name on. See ya."

Nick yelled thanks after the car and waved him off, mentally taking fifteen minutes of flexibility off his schedule, and headed into the ED. Thankfully, a uniform intercepted him before he even reached the nurse's bank, and escorted him straight to Hank's room. Nick was still hiccupping a little at the idea of Wu trying to find a fushflabber online but the state that Hank was in pretty much slapped the smile off his face.

**15:32**

Monroe stood back from his gleaming handiwork and sighed with satisfaction. It was a sight to depress the hardiest of CSIs with not a dot of dust, dander or donut in sight. He'd turned off the vacuum from time to time just to check for the sounds of abandoned yelling, but not a peep. It should be safe to bring Matty back down, now. That deserved a brew. He helped himself to a Peroni from the fridge and jumped a little as his mobile buzzed in a new text in his back pocket. Rosie.

"I just called your place – you're not there. Are you at Nick's? I swear to God, if you're at Nick's, I will WAX you with my bare hands."

Monroe blinked at the text. Now _there's_ a disincentive for honesty. He chose his words carefully. "Chill! Yes, I'm a sucker, yes, I'm helping. But I will be at Mont Blanc at nine as agreed. We will have fun." It was always wise to build in a margin for safety, where Nick was concerned.

There was a longish pause, and then: "sorry. I'm a little crabby. Goddamn moulting is getting to me. How's baby?"

"Asleep. All's well. Can't wait to see you." Monroe allowed himself a full, bona fide wolfish grin. He _couldn't_ wait to see her. Maybe they should even skip dinner. Maybe she would tear all his clothes off again. That was fun. Expensive, but fun.

He reached for the remote and flicked over the comedy channels, plumping for Frasier.

He was about five minutes in and halfway through his beer when he heard a THUMP from upstairs, and then a seriously loud wail.

Monroe woged involuntarily and took the stairs five at a time on his fingers and the balls of his feet.

**15:45**

Nick sat at the bedside, waiting for Hank to wake up. It was like there was an alien in the bed: Hank was grey-lipped, sweaty and fidgety – a badly-formed clone of the guy who could sprint the 100m in 12 seconds through the forest and who would dance to the Dallas theme tune like it was a club anthem instead of some cheesy, trombone-y monstrosity. His leg was up in a sling, the shin plastered, a pressure strap halfway up his thigh, a pressure bandage from knee to strap. The femoral artery... Hank was lucky to be alive.

The rest of him seemed ok. Scuffs on the elbows, some bruise shading round the collarbone, but no signs, thank god, of him being fully worked over. But he was running a fever. Nick grabbed tissue and wiped sweat off Hank's brow, shoulders and leg... really gently round the leg... before the tickling started. Itching down a plaster could drive a guy to screaming point.

"Thanks."

Nick wasn't sure he'd heard it, but Hank's eyes were open. Relief. "Hey."

"Hey yourself. Could you pass me the water?"

Nick hated having to help him with it but was pleased to see that Hank was compos mentis enough to down the glass and ask for another, which he sipped more cautiously after he'd heaved himself upright a little more. "You ok?"

"Yeah, and no. Let's hang fire on that for a moment. I just need to wake up a little. How's the kid?"

"Hopefully he's fine. Upset, obviously."

"Did social turn up?"

"Monroe took over for a little while. They couldn't send anyone over till six."

Hank smiled distantly. "I can't see clock guy clicking with a baby, somehow. Good you've got some help, though. He's become a good buddy, right?"

"It's an... odd sort of friendship."

"Well, keep it going. You're going to need folks to hang out with."

Nick's hand froze en route to his lips with the glass. "You going somewhere?"

"Maybe. Look, I've had time to lie here thinking about a lot of stuff. Things have gotten too weird for me round here. I'm signed off sick for however long it takes, and then I'm going to talk to the Captain about—"

"Please don't tell me you're transferring." Nick felt his conscience separate from him, become a separate physical persona which prowled up and down the room behind him, brandishing one of those old navy whips. He half expected his shirt to be ripped off and to be seized up at the grating. He felt his skin crawl.

"I didn't mention a transfer! I was going to ask Renard about some kind of sabbatical. I've been in a really bad way lately, even before today. So I was going to ask for a year-"

CRACK! "A year?" Nick flushed – hell, that even came out as a yelp. Hank frowned at him.

"Nick, you know that unspoken rule about not interrupting tired guys in intensive care who have no blood left? Well, consider it spoken."

He felt like he was spending the whole day apologising. To everyone. So he did it again, just to be thorough.

"I'm asking for a year in the hope of getting six months. If I can get through six months without finding dried organs in tents or handling evidence that turns me into Gollom, I'll be fine." Hank smiled faintly but there was little humour the eyes. "And the preshinkt srin- preesh… BLAH! Dry mouth! The... pre-_cint shrink_ already suggested I spend some time considering whether I'm a cop because I want to be, or whether I'm doing it because I come from a cop family, yada yada."

CRACK! "When did you see the shrink?"

"A couple of weeks after we took that psychiatrist...thing down. I couldn't sleep. My work was slipping, so Renard had me talk to him. The doc thinks I've got PTSD. Now, that _is_ bullshit. I know what that looks like, and I'm not even close."

Hank stared off into the middle distance, took a deep breath and let it out in a huff, his eyes filling. Nick, writhing now with his conscience, couldn't help feeling that the PD shrink was right on the money about the PTSD. Hank couldn't keep wandering around with the image of the dying Wildemann in his head, not knowing what it was, not being able to shake it off. Nick glanced over at the clock and groaned inwardly. Monroe would kill him. Rosie would kill him. They'd stick him on the barbeque and have Grimm a la greque. He'd have to suffer months of garlic-in-jam and probably have to go through a few painful heroics before he got back on their Xmas list, but he had to have _that _conversation with Hank. Right now. He told his conscience to step the hell off and give him space, then took a deep breath.

**15:55**

"Look, again, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to come bursting in like that, but you scared the crap out of me! I thought you'd fallen out of bed or something."

Monroe walked round the room with the tiny Eis drumming furious little fists on his chest to a pretty fierce tattoo beat – it might actually bruise – and desperately tried to close his eyes off to the high-pitched shriek. The kid hadn't fallen out of bed, but he had rolled to the edge and managed to knock over Nick's vat of coffee. His sudden appearance, albeit in human form, put the fear of God into Matty. And now he didn't know what to do. He couldn't put him down. He couldn't reason with him. TV did not distract him.

He did six laps of the room being a plane.

He started pulling faces and quickly thought better of it.

He fumbled with Matty single-handed while mixing up formula, and stuck a pan of water on the hob to warm it through gently, all while making a magnificent effort not to let the stress make him woge again.

**16:00**

Monroe could've screamed as he fished the melted beaker out of the pan. So, Grimms had hobs with hidden thermo-nuclear settings. Who knew? At least it explained Juliette's weapon of choice: just replace half the guns in the fields in the wars across the world with versons of Juliette's hob and most of the soldiers would probably decide that they didn't really want to fight for their country after all.

"Ok, buddy, all that screaming's not good. You're going to make yourself sick. Right. I'm cleaning this beaker out – what remains of it – and you're going to have cold water. Got that?"

Matty stopped screaming long enough to glower at him, then donked him on the nose with his fist.

Maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was the ingratitude, but Monroe shifted. He couldn't help it. Matty's eyes widened impossibly and opened his mouth to scream, but no scream came out.

No scream, but a roar. A real, bass, weird roar that came from the bottom of lungs that couldn't have been more than three inches high, and out came the ears again. Big and pointy. Whiskers appeared, and finally, eye-teeth.

"HOLY CRAP!" A half-breed? Half-Lowen, Half-Eis? Monroe could only stare. Was this how it worked? Wesen kept the wilder side of their parentage back for anger reactions, and the milder for general stress?

"Oh, tiny dude! Your life is going to be so... complicated!"

Y


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for all the lovely feedback so far – really glad you guys are enjoying! It's all very experimental so your kind comments have been really helpful. And thanks to General Zargon for the tip about stopping the clocks, LOL….**

**Rated T for language in this one section. **

**Fifth and final part coming v soon. **

**16:01:37**

"I've always believed you, about what you saw. In the theatre."

Hank gave him a long look. "I know. And that goes a long way with me – it really does. It's just not enough to keep me going in the job – at least not right now. I need to get my head straight. A few months at my brothers' place shelling crayfish will do that."

"Hank, I've seen stuff myself. A lot." He caught Hank's wary gaze. "I think I might be able to explain-"

"No, don't. Stop."

"What? You've spent weeks, apparently, torn by what you saw and now you're happy to stick it all in the big pot of amnesia and let it brew? I've got to talk to you about this!" His conscience nodded approvingly and put the whip down on the bed.

"Hey Nick – see the hands going over the ears? La la, la la, can't hear you, etc? We don't need to talk _now_. I suddenly have this great desire not to think about anything but hotdogs and a ball game or three hours of Dallas re-runs."

Nick felt his moment slipping away and could've screamed. "I thought you were desperate to understand."

"Yeah, I was. I really was. I thought I was going nuts. It helps that you saw something and want to share it." And Hank did look brighter. "You'll never know how much that helps, because now I know I wasn't seeing things. Well, I was seeing _things_, but you get me. Now I can go away, take some vacation and just sit on it all for a while. So, as low as this sounds, man, I really don't want to hear about what you saw. I'm sorry."

"Right," Nick said faintly. "That's me told." And that's you told, too, he said to his conscience, which flung down the whip in disgust and left the room in a huff. "So you really don't want to know. Ever?"

"Not _now_. Just at this point, I have this massive... lack of curiosity about any weird shit and I just need a break. " He put his fist out and Nick bopped it gingerly with his own. "Besides, I'm kinda suspicious that you're only coming out with this helpful theory now."

"It's taken a while to pull together."

"Really? Cause I'm thinking that you're cooking something up to keep me from leaving so you don't have some schmuck to put up with while I'm away." It was said with a smile, but Nick hadn't gotten there yet.

"I really hadn't thought that far ahead."

The sincerity in this seemed to give Hank pause, but he was set on his path. "Anyway. I've said everything that needs to be said. I just wanted you to hear it from me, not Renard or Wu. Can you do me one favour, though?"

"Say it."

"Sneak past the troll on the nurse's desk and grab me a Pepsi?"

Nick went, deciding to grab a can for himself to wash down the great big lump of disappointment in his throat. On one hand – good that all was well with him and Hank and at least now he had this conversation to refer back to if the big guy ever felt the burning need to understand what he saw that night in the theatre. On the other – however the conversation came out, he'd hoped he'd be shaking some weight off his shoulders back there.

The machine wouldn't deliver. He stuck in two dollars – it gave him a quarter change – which was flinty for starters – then withheld the Pepsi. Nick kicked it and they tumbled down. He was just in the process of getting his hand firmly stuck when a voice behind him made him jump.

"Those Pepsis had better be for you." He glanced back, still stuck, saw a vast, uniformed Hasslichin standing behind him. "And if I see you damaging hospital property again, you will be removed from the premises."

"I'm sorry. Long day." He got his hand free, albeit with a little bruising. She was unmoved by his minor injury. And his Grimmness.

"Hmmph." The Hasslichin retreated back behind the nurse's bank and he took the Pepsis back in the hall – then it struck him. _How _did Hank know there was a troll on the nurse's desk? Then laughed – generic term – if Hank'd said 'bitch, cow, total heifer', he'd have thought nothing of it.

The Captain swept past him into the room as he got back, and for possibly the millionth time, Nick felt like the guy was missing something. He just looked like he ought to have wings. Or some great big cape. Not Dracula-style, obviously (though he could probably work the teeth) but something...wizzardy. He'd worked with taller people than Renard – his first partner, Jan was a Dutch seven-footer who'd been seconded for a year from Utrecht before putting in his Interpol application, but had never LOOMED like Renard. Or had such a talent for thin smiles as Renard. Renard popped one now, just to show he still had it.

"Gentlemen. How're you doing, Hank?"

"I'll be good, but we need to talk."

The hint dropped like a binlid on marble and Nick hopped off the side of Hank's bed. "I'll just get going." Then he saw the time, and ran.

**16:31:37**

A temporary, uneasy truce reigned at Nick's place. Monroe and Matty sat growling softly together, separated by three octaves, three feet of sofa and, of course, breed. As the older and the wiser of the two, Monroe felt that it fell to him to offer the olive branch.

"So, what I'm thinking is, we need to start this conversation again, from a position of mutual respect. I'm Monroe – Wieder-Blutbad. You're Matty, Eislowen. Pleased to meet you."

"Rarr."

"Buddy, you can rarr all you like, but I'm taking the higher moral ground, here. And leave that cushion alone. You're fraying it something terrible."

Matty was. It was amazing how much string and thread he'd battered out the corner in just a little half hour, chasing it with his fingers and… OH MY GOD! THAT'S IT! Monroe sprang to his feet as genius kicked him up the ass. "I'm just going into the yard. Don't go prowling anywhere!"

He dashed out back, laughing at his own cunning. Cats like string. Eisbibers like sticks! He grabbed a whole bunch of twigs from out back, ran back in and deposited them on the cushion next to Matty.

"Here you go, buddy! Let's play dams!"

Matty did not woge. Not to his human side. Not to his milder beaver side. He glanced up and treated Monroe to a long, disparaging look.

Then the doorbell rang.

**16.36:52**

At least the rain had stopped, but there was nothing outside the ED. Nick had counted on a few walking-wounded guys turning up after some incompetent DIY, but there was nothing on offer by way of a quick and easy ride. So he stomped reluctantly back into the ED to get a number off the nurse's desk. The Hasslichin was still on duty. Great. She looked up, treated him to a withering and trollish stare, then spoke back down to her Sodoku.

"You gave him Pepsi. I confiscated it."

"I gave me Pepsi. Left it by accident. Have you got a number for-"

"Reception's down the hall. This is a nurse's desk." She gestured at the huge red-and-white sign like he was dumb.

Nick exhaled slowly. "I realise that. I'm not asking you to make a call, just if you have a number. For a cab."

Without looking up, she flipped out a card. "Just so you know, you're now barred from the hospital. Use the cab to get out of my face."

"Fine." He snatched it, saw over the desk that she was blatantly missing a six that could ting off the rest of her sodoku in about three minutes. He pointed. "Try an eight there." And went out to dial the number before she got herself into a complete tangle and decided to thump him.

**16:41:54**

"Man, this is ridiculous! Come out of the cupboard so we can have a proper conversation!"

"No! Hear the little guy crying? He's absolutely terrified of you!"

"He is totally, fundamentally unafraid of me. He's just pissed at being stuck in a dark, smelly room with a twitchy Eisbiber!" Monroe curled his fingers into his palms, counted to three, tried a calmer approach. "Look, do you really think that Nick would leave a baby – lowen, eis, human _whatever_ – with a wild blutbad? I'm wieder. I even eat tofu, voluntarily. Not at gunpoint or anything."

There was a small creak as the short, round guy emerged from the cupboard, holding Matty, who stopped mewling immediately. "So you're a friend of Nick's?"

"Do you see any signs of a break-in?"

The guy actually checked. He scanned the room with nervous eyes and actually checked. "I guess not." Cautiously, he made his way over to the couch, next to Monroe. "I'm Bud."

"Monroe."

They sat quietly for a few moments, then Bud pulled out his phone. "No offence, but maybe I should take things from here."

"I've been doing fine!"

"And I can do better. I'll see if I can fast-track things with social services."

Monroe glanced up at the clock, torn between clipping the smug biber upside the head and being pleased he'd get away on time. "You have connections with them?"

"Janie and I are on the foster list. Maybe we can take him in tonight. Otherwise he'll have to go to their refuge centre and that place just isn't nice. They have this policy of this drop-in place where parents have 24 hours to change their mind about abandonment before they get prosecuted, but… I think we both know that no-one's coming to pick this little guy up."

He placed the call, but it was unnecessary, evidently: Mrs Spencer was already on her way. "She's nice. A little cross with 'Mr Burkhardt' for abandoning Matty twice in one day, but she's on her way early."

Monroe did not recall Bud seeing the note. "You know Matty?"

"I know Matty's dad – Henry came to the lodge for help. He got bitten by something a couple of months ago and he's been sick but now…. I'm guessing he's worried about passing on infection. He kept getting… stuck."

"Getting stuck as a Lowen, I presume,"

"Yeah. Kind of makes it difficult to get to hospital for treatment. Janie and I passed him anti-biotics for a while, but… we knew this had to happen eventually."

Monroe glanced across at the rotund guy playing contentedly with the cub in his lap. They just looked… right together. "How come Henry didn't leave Matty with you?"

"I think he assumed Nick would find him a Lowen family. No matter." He picked Matty up and bounced him on his knee. "We'd best not get too fond of you, huh? We don't know where you're going to end up, do we? Where is Nick, by the way? He left me a tonne of urgent messages, and then…"

"He went to see his partner. Hank got shot. I think we got the same pile of urgent messages."

Matty sneezed suddenly and Monroe found himself looking round for Rosalee evidence that he'd missed. Bud raised a brow.

"Do I smell… um… seasonal Fuschbau?"

"You do." Monroe took the path of minimal information.

"Uh… Nick got a new girlfriend, or something?"

"She's my girlfriend."

"YOURS? And you brought her here to um…."

"No! I brought Rosie here for dinner. We argued over the remote, one thing led to another, and…"

"But Eiskinderen are horribly allergic to seasonal Fuschbau – everyone knows that!"

Monroe felt himself bridling with indignation. "Look! I had no idea when we got.. carried away… that I'd be here half the afternoon babysitting an Eistot so actually, my conscience is clear. And I did hoover. So… they're only allergic to Fuschbau when they're _in season_?"

"Well, yeah – everyone knows that! You know how many Fuschbau there are teaching Kindergarten? It'd be a pretty messy classroom experience if Eiskinderen were allergic to all Fuschbau all the time."

"But only when they're in season? That makes absolutely no sense!"

"It does too! It's the moulting. While Fuschbau keep their hair on, we're fine. When their pheromones are flying…. No chance. Anyway – a blutbad and a Fuschbau together? That doesn't make any sense either, not that I'd dream of commenting."

"You just did!" Monroe flicked his gaze skyward, holding back from an argument, no matter how much of a prig the guy was. How were he and Nick friends, anyway? Jeez. But… it was a useful piece of information. He grinned quietly to himself, wondering how Rosalee would take the news that her cast-iron excuse for staying away from Eiskinderen was only valid for 3 weeks a year. Perhaps not an issue to raise this evening, however pleasurable the end-result of a standup row.

There was a polite rap at the door, and Bud went to let in Mrs Spencer.

**16:57:05**

They sat in traffic on Rawlish and 3rd, the endless horns up and down the queue seriously beginning to get under Nick's skin. He bounced in his seat in impatience until the Cabbie barked a comment back at him about testing out his springs.

"What's the hold up?"

Cabbie shrugged demined shoulders. "Couple of guys having a glass fight at the crossing. I can see a couple of uniforms up there trying to move them on, but they're not getting out of the way."

Nick's composure gland, which had been running on swollen for the last half hour, finally burst. He stepped out of the car, slammed the door and stomped through the rain, sending backsplash as far as his crotch. Even from a distance he could see the two Lausenschlange hurling bottles at each other, spitting, and doing a weird kind of dance that seemed to involve dropping the bottles and crushing each other from time to time. The traffic cops had quit trying to coral them and stood back, keeping out of the way of broken glass. They didn't see him, steaming and glowering, until he was practically right on top of them and he hauled them off the road by the scruffs of their necks.

"You'll stay off this road or, I swear to god, I will disembowel you both and USE YOUR GUTS AS FUCKING HAMMOCKS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"GRIMMM!" they fled into the night, leaving the uniforms looking pleased but a little stunned, and he flashed his badge at them by way of retrospective courtesy.

"They're known to me," he muttered and trudged back to his cab with a disconsolate gaze at his watch, barely hearing the whoops of approval and joyful sounding of car horns as he passed the line of happy motorists. Monroe would be steaming.

17:10

The cab pulled in and Nick hauled himself up the steps to the front door, a little puzzled that all the lights were off. He lit up the ground floor, used an ancient coat to towel off his hair and wandered into a spotless front room. Maybe Monroe had taken the kid for a drive, or something. The unaccustomed tidiness made the note on the coffee table stand out that little bit more.

_Dude_

_You are late! Vengeance will be mine, etc etc._

_Anyway – you're in luck, turns out your pal Bud (the annoying one) is bestest-friendies with the lady from the social services and they've worked something out, for now. I've told Bud you'll be happy to help him out any time. Busy for a few days, but we gotta get together to talk about mixed breeds: Matty's an Eislowen._

_M_

_Ps – get your cooker fixed, it's a deathtrap._

_Pps – I'm not saying I'm mad, but there are a couple of stopwatches of yours that may never start again._

Nick set the note down with a chuckle of relief: by Monroe's standards, it wasn't particularly terse. He thumbed off a quick text of apology and thanks anyway. An Eislowen, huh? He'd wondered about the ears. Now he knew he wouldn't have to go driving off somewhere else in a panic, he got himself a couple of Peronis from the fridge and stretched out on the couch, absolutely shattered, trying to empty his brain and think of nothing more than ceiling tiles and beer swigging. His mobile buzzed and for a moment he thought it might be a snarky rejoinder from Monroe, but it was from Hank.

_Spoke to Renard – he agreed to three months then we'll review. Tight ass! Anyway, thanks for swinging by tonight. Let's get together before I go to my bro's._

That was good. A result for both of them, in a way. A good day for him, comparatively speaking, regardless of feeling like he'd dragged backwards and upside down through several hedges. Two friendships saved, and he didn't need to worry about Matty.

Still, it would've been nice if he could say goodbye to the kid. A small part of him felt like a having a hug.

**Ps – there will be an epilogue… while I've tied up my loose ends (mostly) I don't plan to leave him alone and exhausted on his couch.**


	5. Epilogue

**Here we are! Final instalment...! Hope you enjoy, and thanks so much for all your friendly and helpful reviews! Do let me know if any more Bruno/Matty stuff would appeal further down the line.**

**14****th**** February 2014. At about midnight.**

Rosalee squeezed Monroe's hand as they made their way down the final leg of the endless stretch of sidewalk that would _eventually_ get them to Nick's new place on Montrose Avenue (or Monstrous Avenue as it became when it was raining or one desperately needed a piss). He did wonder whether it was necessary for Nick to move quite so far into the boondocks (or quite so close to him, more to the point) but at least it made for a very local stop-off on the way home from a night out. And he did get that Nick wouldn't want to stay in that huge suburbian pile on his own anymore.

Rosalee squeezed his hand again, bringing him back to the world of the present. "It was nice to see Bud and Janie, wasn't it?"

Monroe smiled painfully. "It would have been nice to have seen them for a slightly... shorter time. I mean, it's valentine's night for Christ's sake! Did they really have to sit down with us? It was Matty-this, Matty-that, MattyMattyMatty..."

Rosalee chuckled. "Honey, they just got their adoption papers through. They're so happy they don't know where to put themselves. They're probably stopping random strangers and dogs to tell them about Matty. They're probably calling the... Federal Siegbarste-Sighting hotline to tell them about Matty!"

"And that's fine, I'm really happy for them. I just wish Bud would do it somewhere else!"

"He's a nice guy, really. And he's patient! It's not many Dads who could cope with a kid who needs a three-hour siesta every day during the middle of the construction season."

"He's a small doses guy, that's what he is." It had become exasperating over the last year to have to increasingly share Nick with Bud. To a degree, he knew this was not fair. Nick was not his pet Grimm. He was an independent, athletic, well-balanced guy who needed a broom to rid his path of fainting teenage Wesen girls every morning, and yet still had plenty of time for him. No-one owned Nick. But there was this tiny yet growing part of Monroe that just wanted to sneak up on Bud on a dark night and roar in his face "I SAW HIM FIRST!" and scare him so bad his whiskers fell off his face. It occurred to him that he was doing a less good job of suppressing his jealous streak than he was his Wolfish tendencies. Matty was cute – really cute – and possibly a little over-clever in that feline 'I can run rings round you' sort of way. But he wasn't a patch on Bruno. Even if he _could_ build a Lego riverside mansion in under 22 minutes.

Rosie dragged him up Nick's steps and held her thumb on the apartment intercom. "Need I remind you that the first thing you did when Bruno was born – out of pure joy or otherwise – was to strip off and run naked through the forest? It was nice of the cops to recognise the extenuating circumstances and let you out the same day! Don't talk to me about Bud's over-enthusiasm, ok? Right, we're here."

The overproud parent thing was bugging Monroe, now. "Rosie... do you think we do that... constant-talk-about-the-children thing with Bruno as much as Bud does with Matty?"

"Yes!" Nick volunteered through the intercom. "And Rosie, _no-one _needs to be reminded about Monroe streaking. Let yourselves up, Bruno and I are working out."

Nick lay back on the couch with Bruno between his hands _– man he was small, must be the fox in him – _and power lifted him up above his head. Where was he? Oh yeah – "25...26...27..." In between, Bruno squeaked cheerfully down at him, all red-haired, huge-eyed and bewhiskered, dribbling down onto the sore spot on his hairline, and 'tickling' his hands with nails that desperately needed a cut. In between counting, Nick matched every squeak with a growl, making Bruno squeak again. God, if he'd known it would be this easy to make Bruno happy four hours earlier...

He'd had the good grace to stay asleep and cuddle into his shoulder for the first two hours, making him look reasonably irresistible to Juliette. He'd had the good grace to go down and stay down while they had dinner: purely ravioli-on-the-lap-in-the-lounge stuff. He thought it unwise to eat up at the table with wine on Valentine's day. They were still really nervous friends: making progress, sure, but there was still the occasional long silence while they sifted through lists of things they shouldn't say, and they could never seem to say goodbye properly, crashing noses in a determination not to accidentally meet lips.

They'd finally got chatting in a more normal way -and Bruno was gold here, producing natural talking material - but then completely shat (literally) on all the brownie points he'd earned by doing the most appalling butt patty known to man. She was very gracious about helping him to clear it up. Then she'd left.

"...But it was something, eh, little buddy? She hugged me this time. Crap and all."

He looked up, left and saw Monroe staring down at him, horrified. "You're blogging? While using my son as a deadweight?"

Nick managed to shrug without breaking his stride. "He's enjoying it. And he's eight pounds, which makes him perfect for endurance exercise. 41...42..."

"Give him here."

Nick swung off the couch and gently passed the squeaking bundle into Monroe's arms. "He's fine. All your stuff's packed up, by the way."

Monroe appeared to be checking his son for damage in a way that Nick found... infuriating. "You did read the checklist, right? The part where it says 'must be asleep by seven on the dot'?"

"Yeah, and then he woke up! And actually, about that 'checklist'..." Nick walked over to the coffee table, picked up the ring-bound manual and tossed it lightly to Rosie, who flushed puce with embarrassment.

"Oh Monny, you didn't!"

"Uh, he did. And there's a few things I'd like to mention about this 'checklist'. First - anything that that comes with an index needs to be given to a guy to read in advance. That sound fair enough? Good. Second, there were a few key omissions."

Monroe looked vaguely guilty. "Such as?"

"The average land-to-airspeed of a Fuschblad hairball." Nick gestured the raw spot on his temple meaningfully. "And not a _word_ of warning about sleep-roaring – good job I wasn't carrying the ravioli, I can tell you. Or about early-years vulpine scent-marking tactics." He indicated the pile of unclean tee-shirts in the wash basket.

Rosie clipped Monroe upside the head and shook her head with mortification. "Nick, I'm SO sorry..."

Monroe looked like he was pursing his lips together to keep himself from laughing, and thus getting smacked in the face.

Nick walked over and took his old friend by the shoulders. "Monroe, can I ask you something? Is our favour tab about even now? Are we officially done with 'vengeance will be mine, etc etc?'"

"Yeahhhh... I think you're off the hook."

"Good. 'Cause next time you guys ask me a favour on a night I'm seeing Juliette, I'm running. Ok?"

**Mandy – thanks so much for following and commenting reviewing throughout. I'm just sorry that you've been in and out as a guest, as I haven't been able to thank you through PM.**


End file.
